


Romanza

by queenmab_scherzo



Series: Symphony of a Thousand [6]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Blowjobs, Boys Kissing, Fluff, M/M, and abuse of parentheses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/pseuds/queenmab_scherzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Aidan and Dean say "I love you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romanza

(March is the turning point, Dean thinks. If he had to define one. If he had to sit down and explain where one thing ended and another began. It's kind of like telling someone to  _shut up, sit very still, there, there, do you hear it? the way the earth spins under your feet at 2000 kilometers per hour and doesn't send all the blood rushing to your head? or does it?_ )

It's not because March is particularly special. The opposite, really. It finds Dean in a corner café with Aidan and Adam and a paper cup filled with too-hot dark-roast. The heavy aromas of nutmeg and ginger and honey almost mask the shop's permanent burnt-coffee-smell, but Dean doesn't mind. His seat is comfortable and his boyfriend is stretched out next to him in a patch of sun peeking through the curtains. There's little to complain about.

Not for Dean, anyway; Adam can always find something to complain about. Today it is pianists.

" _No_  I'm not jealous of their solo rep," Aidan argues. Half his attention is on his coffee, though. He keeps trying to add the milk and sugar, and Adam keeps interrupting.

"You have like, five concertos worth listening to," Adam scoffs. "Beethoven  _alone_  wrote that many piano concertos. At least."

"Sure, but they won't ever get to play Beethoven's  _symphonies!_ "

In his enthusiasm, Aidan almost dumps half the sugar on the table. Dean roll his eyes. "Here, let me." He slides Aidan's mug closer so he can reach, and does his best to measure out the cream and sugar the way Aidan likes.

Meanwhile, Adam isn't letting him off the hook. "Aidan, they have more solo music than any of us  _combined_." He's waving his arms dramatically. And probably exaggerating, but—actually, they play horn, clarinet, and oboe. So … Adam might be right, but that's not gonna get Dean to side with him.

"Half of that solo music is  _shit_ ," Aidan insists. "Plus it's so long, can you imagine practicing all that?"

"I practice a lot already, I'd love to practice more nice solo music and less scales," Adam counters.

Aidan shakes his head and leans back in his chair. Dean takes the opportunity to hand him his drink, which seems to surprise Aidan, who looks as if he forgot the coffee entirely. Grabbing Dean's wrist, he turns a wolfish grin on Adam. "I can think of better ways to spend a half hour than playing some shit concerto."

Dean rolls his eyes. "A whole half hour? That would be a first."

Aidan almost spills his coffee trying not to laugh.

"I don't think Aidan Turner's got any firsts left," Adam points out drily.

Aidan smiles and his eyes fall to his lap. "I guess we'll see," he teases.

The banter is just making Adam huffy. "The point is, pianists are lucky bastards. Luckier than our sorry lot."

Dean props his chin in one hand. "It would be nice to have more good solos," he concedes.

"See? Even Dean is on my side."

While Adam sulks into his coffee, Aidan and Dean exchange a knowing look. Dean is well aware how passionate Aidan is about orchestral repertoire, and how few shits he could give about playing solos. He's great at it, of course—mind-bogglingly so—but that's more out of dedication, necessity, willpower than natural passion. It's ensemble playing that comes naturally to him, and frankly Dean can relate a thousand percent. But they remain silent for Adam's sake.

Aidan raises his coffee mug and mouths a soft  _cheers_. All Dean can do is smile.

"You know, my last boyfriend played piano," Adam interrupts. "He was a dick."

"Great story, Adam," Aidan says.

Adam sticks out his tongue. "I dumped him because he kept saying my instrument was worthless."

"Why did you date him to  _begin_  with?" Dean asks, honestly mortified by the admission.

"Don't judge!" Adam protests. "How did  _your_  last relationship end, Prince Charming?"

 _Unnecessary chaos_ , Dean thinks. "He cheated on me."

Adam's eyes widen. "Ah—shit, sorry." He gives Dean a sympathetic pat on the arm.

Aidan's reaction is more like chucking a rock through a glass window. "Did what?!"

"He—my last boyfriend? He cheated on me."

"Cheated on  _you?"_

Dean blinks. Somehow he finds himself second-guessing things because Aidan is so absolutely  _astonished_. "Yes?" Dean says after a breathless second. "I left town one weekend for a gig and he—well."

Dean glances round for help. Adam is eying Aidan skeptically. "It's not that weird, is it?" Adam says.

"Hey!"

"No offense, Dean."

"It's not weird, I guess." Aidan shifts in his seat. "It's just that—it's Dean."

"It's 2015 though, hasn't everyone been cheated on at some point in their lives?" Adam asks.

"I guess, but we're talking about a serious relationship, here." Aidan waves vaguely at Dean, who can actually feel the moment his heart starts to tremble.

"Well," Adam leans forward, "has anyone ever cheated on  _you_?"

"Yeah, sure, but I mean, when you're sixteen and you don't know any better …" Aidan trails off, then smiles and scratches his stubble. "Besides, she had to get it somewhere. Christ knows I wasn't giving it to her."

Dean shakes his head fondly. "Well, let me assure you that people  _have_  cheated on me. But I understand why that's so hard to believe," he teases.

"It is." Aidan says simply. (Dean's heart does a clumsy cartwheel.)

"It's no big deal," Dean says. He glances at Aidan, who's resolutely stirring his coffee, bottom lip between his teeth. Dean sighs. "I probably should have been used to it by then."

Aidan's eyes flicker up.

"Used to it?" Adam sounds surprised this time, too. "How many boyfriends have cheated on you, then?!"

Dean laughs weakly and runs a hand through his hair. "All of them?"

The moment could go down in history: Adam Brown and Aidan Turner both rendered speechless. And only by three little words. If only Dean could harness that power at more useful times.

Aidan swallows hard and finally manages, "is that a lot?"

"Um, five or six? Depending on—well. Yeah." Dean can definitely feel a blush creeping up his neck. And then he definitely feels Aidan's feet tangling around his own under the table. Which definitely doesn't alleviate the blushing.

"That's some shit luck, yeah," Aidan says with a little smile.

" _Feels_  like shit," Dean agrees, and forces a laugh. "The last one was a singer though, so—what can you expect?"

It's embarrassing, actually, the way he feels obligated to lighten the mood. If only his words didn't burst into the silence like something bright and poisonous and painfully  _obvious_.

Aidan's foot curls around his ankle. (Dean feels a rush of affection for him, and maybe thinks some things he shouldn't say out loud.

Not for the first time, or anything so dramatic. He began to realize it around Valentine's Day—most of which they spent in orchestra rehearsal—when Aidan bought him a nice bottle of wine and still insisted the flowers Dean gave  _him_  were the better gift. But really, that was just when he started to notice. He'd been falling in love with Aidan since  _Don Juan_  and red wine and synesthesia. Every day he finds the words on the tip of his tongue, and every day he bites them back because the moment isn't meaningful enough or because he can't explain it or because he doesn't want to scare Aidan away.)

Adam speaks then and shoves Dean out of his lovesick stupor. "I've never even met a singer who would spend more than one night with someone, to be honest."

This time, Aidan does laugh so hard he spills his coffee.

* * *

The only word Dean can come up with to describe Aidan's expression is "troubled." If he had to pick a piece of music to describe it … probably the [Berceuse from Stravinsky's  _Firebird_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gyAjd2gH_bY). It's nerve-wracking, to be honest.

There's a football game on, which has about half of Aidan's attention at most. Dean's curled across from him on the couch with a pocket-sized Mahler score and a highlighter and waning patience for cadential prolongation. At this point, he's largely distracted by the look on Aidan's face, and the way he chews at his lip, eyes glazed over.

Finally, when Dean's nerves can't take it anymore, he stretches out and presses his toes into Aidan's thigh. "What's up?"

As if waking up from a deep sleep, Aidan blinks and rubs his eyes, then fixes Dean with a weary smile. "Nothing. What's up with you?"

"You look worried about something."

"Nah," Aidan says, pulling one of Dean's feet into his lap and giving the arch a gentle rub.

(Dean would have said it, then, no hesitation—it's on the tip of his tongue, as ever—but there clearly  _is_  something on Aidan's mind, and he's got to get to the bottom of that before making spur-of-the-moment love confessions on a dreary Tuesday afternoon.)

So he begins kicking Aidan gently with his free foot. "Come on," he whines.

Aidan laughs. "I was just thinking about—my old teacher asked me to visit as a guest artist next semester."

"What?" Fireworks go off in Dean's chest. "You  _what?"_

"It's not a big deal," Aidan waves it off, then collects Dean's other foot into his lap for a massage. "He just wants me to see the studio and do a masterclass and solo with one of the student orchestras."

"Aidan! You went to the Royal Academy!"

He buries half his face in the couch cushions, then looks up at Dean through one eye. "Yeah? So?"

"So that's  _awesome!"_  Dean can actually feel his eyelids burning. "When is it?"

Aidan's hands go still and he presses himself deeper into the cushions. "Your birthday," he mutters.

That triggers an avalanche in Dean's ribcage.

(It almost tumbles out, too, because he's never felt such an acute fondness for anyone before, ever. It's still a dreary Tuesday though. Plus Aidan's fragile state probably couldn't withstand a love confession, could it?)

So Dean sits up straight and pushes himself across the couch until he's practically in Aidan's lap. "Are you kidding? Are you telling me you don't want to go?"

"I don't want to miss your birthday! How shitty is that?!"

Not as shitty as passing up a gig at the Royal Academy of Music. Christ, his birthday is eight months away, and that means—Dean could actually cry, now.

He giggles, a manic, unhinged sound. "You're so—are you  _kidding_  me?!" He squeezes Aidan's hand between his. "Play the concert, you egg! We can go out for birthday drinks any time!"

"Alright, alright, I hear you, alright," Aidan's laughing now, too. "I just felt so bad. Out of  _all_  the days  _all_  year!"

Dean is suddenly gripped by a horrifying thought. "You didn't say no yet, did you?"

"No!" Aidan laughs again. "No, I told him I'd get back to him."

"…How long ago did he get in touch?"

"Like, four or five days?"

Dean gives him a good smack to the knee. "Ugh, why didn't you tell me sooner? You're hopeless," he teases.

"You love me anyway."

Dean laughs, but before he can say anything, Aidan grabs his knee. "Sorry—I wasn't—I didn't mean it like that. You know."

"I know."

_I do though._

"Gimme a second, I should probably get back to Michael." Aidan hasn't looked up. Not even a hint of eye contact. Instead, he pulls out his iPhone and searches through his emails. Dean wonders whether he ought to address it; the spider-web threads of affection and indecision strung from rib-to-rib, taut and fragile across his chest.

Dean winds his arm around Aidan's neck while he types up the email.

"That good?" Aidan says after a few minutes of careful wording.

Honestly, Dean hasn't been paying attention to the phone screen. "Mm. You guys are friends, right? I'm sure it's fine."

"True. I probably shouldn't have made him wait so long though."

"Mm," Dean hums again. Takes a deep breath. "Aidan—"

He's cut off by Aidan's lips. The phone has disappeared and there are strong fingers curled around the back of his thigh and all Aidan's awkward angles knock against Dean's limbs and then he's on his back, he's horizontal, he's heating up where their hips lock together.

Dean exhales into Aidan's mouth. "You're wearing too much clothes."

Aidan doesn't answer except to sit up and yank his T-shirt over his head. Then he bends forward again, and his dark curls fall across Dean's face.

A frustrated whine bubbles in Aidan's throat as he sits up straight again. "I have too much hair," he breathes, raking it back with both hands.

Dean reaches out across the empty air between them, and he  _can_  reach, it's not too far—though it  _seems_  so far and so  _flawless_ —and he slides his hands up Aidan's torso. Presses tender fingertips into the smooth dip under the ribs and watches the muscles twitch. Watches Aidan absently twist his hair back from his face, part his lips, and slide one knee around to straddle Dean properly.

It's like taking a sledgehammer to the chest.

" _Christ_  you're gorgeous." The words slip out before Dean can think about them at all. Which is okay. There are worse things.

Aidan laughs shyly. The flush rising on his chest and his neck is too much. Way too much. Dean surges up from the cushions, presses a hand to Aidan's chest, and flattens him against the back of the couch. He's also completely out of air but that doesn't stop him from kissing Aidan hungrily, as if it could refill his lungs. He pushes Aidan's knees apart and sinks to the floor between them.

"Still—too—much—clothes," he says as he kisses his way down Aidan's chest, fingers fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. It seems like forever before he gets it all undone and slides a hand into Aidan's boxers.

"Oh—oh god," Aidan moans. His hips buck forward—involuntarily, at first, but then he lifts them, shaking, from the couch cushions and helps Dean slide his pants down around his knees.

Dean doesn't waste any time, would probably pass out if he tried to stop now. He doesn't even tease, just wraps his lips around Aidan's cock and whines.

(If he wasn't preoccupied, he would probably say it now. It's all he can think with Aidan scrabbling at the back of his head and whimpering. And if you're in the middle of giving a blowjob and  _I love you_  is anywhere near the forefront of your mind—well.)

There's a tug at his hair, hard, his scalp lights up with it and a dumb muffled whine starts in the back of his throat, but—

"Come here," Aidan whispers, and it's not as if Dean could say no.

Aidan draws him in and kisses him and his lips feel cold—well, relatively—and exhales; "there's a condom in my bag?"

He clearly tilts it as a question, and Dean's lungs are suddenly full but not with air, it's firecrackers lighting up, sparkling against the confines of his chest. He can barely get his pants off fast enough. While he messes with the condom, Aidan flops onto his back.

"No, no," Dean says, grinning and narrowing his eyes. He grabs Aidan by the hips and flips him roughly, bending him over the arm of the couch.

This draws a string of curses from Aidan's lips, which grows louder and less coherent as Dean thrusts into him. He tries to be nice about it, too. It's not like they really planned or prepared for this. But when Aidan Turner's begging and writhing under you, there's only so much self-control a person can muster, and before Dean can fully comprehend the situation, they're both rutting shamelessly and not-quite-gently.

From the sound of it, the couch is minutes from giving out under them. It's not particularly old or fragile, but Dean's blood and his heart and his hips are a frenzy, and there's too much of Aidan, and not enough air.

It doesn't take long for Aidan to tip over the edge. Dean's finds the back of his head, winds his fingers into that ridiculous mop of hair and tugs. Hard. Aidan's sharp cry gets swallowed up in the cushions. When Dean comes, it's quieter, but uncoordinated. His knees buckle and he collapses—as carefully as possible—over Aidan's back. Pants into the ridges of his spine. (And thinks it, again.  _I could do this a hundred times and a hundred ways and never love you less._ )

Aidan whines when Dean pulls out, but when he cranes his neck, Dean can see him grinning.

"I can't breath," Dean wheezes.

Aidan laughs at him.

Though his legs are wobbly, Dean manages to heave himself up, twist off the condom and make it to the trash can in the kitchen before returning to collapse next to Aidan. Dean presses lazy kisses over and over into the same spot near Aidan's bellybutton, and Aidan twirls his fingers into Dean's hair. They catch their breath together.

"So what's with—" Dean starts and stops and clears his throat to buy himself some time. "Do you not  _like_  blowjobs, or…?"

"What?" Aidan's chest jumps when he laughs. "Are you kidding? You're amazing."

"I mean, not that I'm complaining about—fucking you—and if you like—I mean … I just wondered." Dean feels a little foolish. (Is the earth spinning faster, now, or is it something else causing that weightlessness between his bones?)

Aidan shifts a little. "What do you mean?"

"You always stop me."

"Oh, sure. I just figure, a blowjob is great, but  _you_  don't get anything out of it, do you?"

Dean props his chin up so he can see Aidan better, and he smiles.

(Maybe the earth hasn't sped up. Maybe Dean just noticed it moving for the first time.)

* * *

Aidan leaves town the third week of March. Apparently his brother's birthday falls sometime around St. Patrick's Day and this, combined with him skiving off the family Christmas celebration three months ago, means he can't say no when his mother gives him a very stern invitation to visit home.

In the days leading up to his departure, Aidan experiences an admirably light-hearted bout of cynicism.

"At least you can spend some time with family," Dean reasons.

"Yeah, it'll be great, me and my dad can finally be in the same room while  _not talking_."

Aidan admits his brother is the only one back home worth visiting, and it's his birthday after all, which Dean suspects is the only thing motivating Aidan to buy the plane tickets and actually make this happen. Two days before he's set to leave, Aidan is particularly miserable, and when Dean asks why, he's surprised that the answer has nothing to do with money or extended family.

"Liv can't drive me to the airport," he deadpans. "She got called for rehearsal all day. She said I could have her car, but I can't leave it at the terminal for a whole  _week_ , you know?" Then he notices the frown on Dean's face and instantly brightens. "It'll be fine, though. I figured I'd ask Russell. Or just call a cab."

"I can take you," Dean says, instantly and easily. (It should be obvious by now.)

Aidan's all  _no I couldn't ask you to do that I'll just this-or-that_ , which Dean shuts down without a thought. "It's fine," he insists, pulling Aidan in by the waist. "I want to. That way I can see you more."

And he does. He drives Aidan to catch his flight and soaks up their last few minutes together and kisses him goodbye. He thought it would help, hoarding Aidan's time and attention before he's whisked away to Dublin; he thought he might miss Aidan less.

He is wrong. The week slogs at a snail's pace. Dean spends it listening to Mendelssohn violin concertos and Mozart piano sonatas and [Brahms' second symphony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ny6HjTHv80) and other deliriously happy repertoire. It helps. Marginally. Keeps him from clawing his eyes out. They can't video chat, but they send messages via Skype here and there. Not very often, though. From what Dean can tell, most of Aidan's time and energy is spent on mundane family outings, redundant household chores, and subtly passive-aggressive banter with various aunts and uncles.

On St. Patrick's Day, Dean receives a string of increasingly unintelligible messages which finally deteriorate into variations on "xxooxxoo3".

When the day of Aidan's return flight rolls around, he still hasn't officially asked Dean to meet him at the terminal. And he never does, either, not in so many words. Dean has to drag it out of him.

_When do you land?_

_7 something sorry it's such a late flight_

_It's okay_

_it's late though sorry i would have left earlier but you know how it is mum's got to squeeze every minute out of me sorry_

_It's fine, really. So 7?_

_7ish idk_

_Can I pick you up?_

_you don't have to i can take a cab_

_I want to see you sooner :)_

Aidan doesn't argue much, in the end.

When Dean pulls up to the curb to collect him, his arms are full, what with his horn case and the duffel bag that somehow carried a week's worth of clothing. Together they load the car and then Dean wraps Aidan up in a suffocating hug.

"Missed you."

Aidan hums in agreement.

When they're both settled in the front seat, Dean clears his throat. "I texted Liv. She's still awake, if you want me to drop you off."

Aidan is sprawled in the passenger's seat, head tipped back, feet stretched out as far as they'll reach in the small space. He rubs his eyes and groans. "I'm about to pass out," he says noncommittally.

"You want to come to my place?" Dean asks, half-preoccupied by traffic.

"That alright?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Come over to my place, Aidan."

They both laugh, and Dean drives back to his building. Together they park, drag everything upstairs, and dump the luggage inside the front door. Dean hugs Aidan again, rocking back and forth, and then kisses him. It's difficult to pull away. Eventually they part and Dean takes Aidan's hand and leads him to the bedroom. He's already in sweatpants, but he helps Aidan out of his jacket and his shoes and his jeans, discarding them in a heap on the floor.

Aidan brushes a kiss to Dean's lips, then gives him a weak smile, eyes glassy with exhaustion. "Bed?" he suggests, wagging his eyebrows.

(Dean's heart clenches.)

"We don't have to," he says softly. "We can just go to sleep."

Aidan's eyelids flicker and his lips part slowly before breaking into a smile. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a booty call?"

(Which is a real punch to the gut. He's waited too long to say it, hasn't he?)

"Oh, Aid, baby." Dean takes Aidan's face in his hands and looks him in the eyes, red rims and dark circles and everything. "You're not a booty call."

A huff passes through Aidan's lips—a sound that could be laughter or surprise. Then he throws his arms around Dean in a bone-crushing hug, buries his face into the curve of Dean's shoulder, and there's nothing Dean can do but hold him, hold him tight, twist his fingers into the back of Aidan's undershirt and pet his hair.

( _I missed you._

_I love you._

_I love you_.)

"I love you."

Dean freezes, because he knows he heard the words out loud, but he's definitely not the one who said them. Something like breathless laughter tumbles from his lips. Then he realizes that Aidan is shaking in his arms, and he realizes he still hasn't said anything back.

Dean pulls away just enough to see Aidan's eyes, which are fixed on the floor.

"I love you too," he whispers.

"Oh."

Dean closes his eyes and plants a fierce kiss upon Aidan's lips.

Dean says it again, "I love you too," and Aidan looks up at him and positively beams.

"That's good," he whispers.

They find their way to bed between kisses. Aidan's lips are tense, at first, but Dean rubs his back and lays him against the pillows and pulls the covers over their shoulders and Aidan unwinds. They curve together and make out with their clothes on—or underwear, in Aidan's case—but they don't have sex, even though Dean can feel Aidan growing hard against his thigh.

They don't say it again, either, but when they slow down and Dean pulls Aidan close and holds his head against his chest, he whispers, "I'm glad you're back."

And Aidan says, "you're such a sap."


End file.
